


A Show

by michaelLemieux



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence is his slave boy, Gen, Graves runs a dungeon, Japanese rope binding, M/M, M/s dynamic, Modern AU, Shibari, i was encouraged, watch out for those pesky convoluted metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:46:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelLemieux/pseuds/michaelLemieux
Summary: A scene in two acts.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClutchHedonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Notes on a Lifestyle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665939) by [ClutchHedonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist). 



> Dear ClutchHedonist, 
> 
> Be careful what you encourage, for it may bear fruit. 
> 
> P.S. fruit of SIN

"What fierce eyes you have," he breathes against the staccato pulsing of blood coursing through his veins.

"All the better to devour you with," Graves hums in recourse, twice encircling his wrist around the rope supporting Credence.

A broad circle is traced by polished black wingtips as he displays his supplicant over the oil black tiles threatening to engulf him. His boy meets the hollowing gaze and in time they release. Graves' weight no longer holds Credence aloft, and his torso plummets in a horrific, curling arch. Delicate fingertips disturb the surface of the pool of insidious water his master treads on so easily. Digits curl to caress the cold tile with pulsing knuckles.

A clothed knee strikes the floor next to Credence's forearm. Rough knuckled fingers curl through the rope at his boy's wrist, pulling bound arms aside to reveal open carotids and a trembling throat column. The edge of a nail trails its way down from collarbone to mental protuberance where it lingers. Softly, then, a thumb strokes the slack lips into partition and flees the body.

Graves lifts Credence by the rope binding his forearms into a position he can sustain on his own. Though the rush of blood and roiling surges of realignment, Credence conjures the spectre of Graves to press a kiss sweetly to his cheek.

"On a hot summer night, shall I offer my throat to a wolf with red roses?" the Master asks, his smile evident to his boy even through the crackling depths that lie behind closed eyes.

The rig is lowered enough to allow purchase with the tile. Credence avoids it like hot coals, as if it would gobble him up in senseless wroth.

Onto its toes flees the wolf, red lips parted in the echo of a smile as his victim circles, preparing the next act.


	2. Act II

Credence slides the rope over his arms across the suspension support to cease his reliance on the tiles. His toes hover an inch over the cool black, serving the illusion of a levitating witch. Graves is whispering about his hips, shifting those slithering silk twine supports into a new position. Since the fall, Credence has let his eyes slip closed with eyelash sutures to veil the world around him. Sounds hither and thither about, insidious and distracting, but his focus has no issue stolidly surveying his Master as he sanctions transformation.

"Will he offer me his jaws?" Graves considers aloud, laying flat a hand over Credence's abdomen.

In a slow curl, Credence lends power to his arms and floats away from the ground. His legs curl up from the tiles, locked at the ankles, sole pressed to meta tarsals as he dips his head through his arms to take in the fragrance of Graves before him. They are a scant inch apart, and though lacking sight, Credence has confident knowledge of Graves' placement. His abdomen expands with breath, ribs extending like wings as tension coils through the muscles over his stomach, roiling in flexion against Graves' palm.

Breath halts in Graves' chest, caught, struggling between his heart and jugular.

"Yes," he concurs on a forced exhale that restarts his breathing.

Graves's palm caresses Credence's skin, curling around hip before taking it back. The knuckle of a finger climbs the terrain of flesh in a slow drag from navel to chin. There it pauses, but falls.

“My beautiful boy,” Graves whispers in genuflect, his fingertips crossing Credence’s belly as he calmly circles his wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

A strong hand unlocks the boy’s ankles and coils rope around one of them. The noosed ankle is then strung up to the support, secured, left to hang. The wolf’s head cranes back to challenge Graves, the slow opening of Credence’s eyes digging into his master’s belly as curdled milk. Black eyes meet with the smooth brown of the inquisitor. There is no motion in the room. No breath or thought. 

The beast inhales deeply, eyes accusing of the decision being made, warning of its consequence. 

Graves stretches forth a hand to press against Credence’s cheek, thumb placed carefully at the edge of his mouth. 

“On a hot summer night, were I to offer my  _ throat _ to the wolf with the red roses, would he offer me his  _ jaws? _ ” he asks in a slow drawl, each word heavy with the knowledge of what he asks. 

His wolf considers him with the full extent of his animal nature, and with weighty consideration, turns its head into the hands embrace, lowering its jaw in supplication. 

A conservative grin breaks the tension in the room as the inquisitor takes his hand from the witch. 

_ “Yes.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot of unexplained imagery used here, lots of metaphors, and inspiration from Meatloaf and witch hunts. Good luck wading through it.


End file.
